


shift the tide

by FeoplePeel



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Character Study, Developing Friendships, Gen, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 06:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17038859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: At the age of eighteen Billy is recruited onto the Queen Anne's Revenge.





	shift the tide

**Author's Note:**

> A for-fun piece I did because I wanted to write about Billy and Vane and who would change whom...and it mostly ended up being about Anne and Billy instead, so that was enjoyable! Thank you for reading!

When pressed Billy could never remember the exact details of his first run in with a pirate. He couldn’t remember how he got a pistol or made it to the captain's cabin. He remembered the smoke, the ship over the railing, too far off to make out any detail, except that it was big--bigger than theirs by far--sleek, and catching them fast. There was so much shouting. 

Then he’d killed his captain. He remembered that. Some days, particularly when he found himself missing his mother, he wished he could remember the expression on his face when it happened. 

“I'd thank you for saving me the trouble,” he heard a voice, puckish and too light for the carnage he still heard outside, “but I'll wait til you've lowered your pistol if you don't mind.” 

The man behind him was dressed extravagantly under the blood, but a pistol of his own in each hand held their aim at Billy. Further behind him, and struggling to push past, was a smaller man, red of hair with a rage in his eyes that startled Billy into lowering his own gun. 

“Andrew, go check that the quartermaster hasn't decided to burn the ship with us in it, please.” The man blocking the door frame gave a clear order. It took a moment to register with the other man but, inevitably, it did and he skulked away. 

“What’s your name?” he entered slowly, lowering one pistol, then the other. 

“Manderly, William, sir,” Billy set his own down. Beyond that door he was outgunned even if he wanted to try. “Billy.” 

“Jack.” The man held out a hand and Billy took it, quickly shaking just once. “Rackham, the bosun of the fine vessel that overtook yours. A fact you don't seem terribly unhappy about, judging by the state of your captain.” 

“I was conscripted.” He felt his jaw work hard but he managed. “Some two months back. Anti-impressionist activities.” 

“And they've had you fighting the pirate menace since, hm?” 

“Tending to the deck mostly, sir.” 

“That's good. I've been wanting to train up a new boatswain, don’t plan to be in this position forever, you see. Always good to have a competent replacement.” Jack spoke quickly, practiced, and whether it was meant to convince or assure, Billy couldn't tell. When he was quiet for too long, Jack raised an eyebrow. “If you're interested?” 

“I can't go home.” Billy knelt beside the body slowly draining of blood. “My parents…,” His parents would haunt him for this. He startled at a hand on his shoulder. 

“I will be honest with you, your options are...fairly limited.” Jack winced, eyes drifting to the body of the captain, a hole where his eye should be, cheekbone shining an eerie white. “But you’re right. England is not hospitable enough to people like us,” Jack patted him twice then offered him a hand up. “It's our job to make it so. Isn't that what your parents would want?” 

Billy took his hand and stood.

* * *

“Where’ve you been?” 

The man who must be the quartermaster was shorter than Billy by a good foot with a face like a hatchet and a voice like the last coals of a fire. The man with the red hair had startled Billy, but this man instilled a deeper, more instinctual sort of fear. He noticed that everyone, save Jack was keeping a wide-berth, though that may have been due to the pile of bodies. 

“Found a willing crew member, name of--” 

“Kill him,” the man said before Jack could finish. He leaned down to pull a knife from out of the man closest to his feet. “Don't need more crew.” 

“After today, we do,” Jack carried on unfettered, but Billy saw the way a few men drew in their breath and took a further step back. Jack was walking on a serpent's spine. “Half of those boys are ours. And _this one’s_ big.” 

Jack pushed him forward and Billy stumbled a little, not expecting the push. The man turned to him with a growl, likely for Jack, as it was directed somewhere around Billy’s left shoulder. It tapered off as his eyes lifted to meet Billy's. 

“Billy, meet our charming quartermaster,” and Jack said charming the way most said venomous so perhaps Billy hadn’t been so far off the mark with the snake metaphor. “Charles Vane. Vane, William Manderly. Prefers Billy.” 

“He’s young.” 

“Eighteen, sir,” Billy responded without thinking. “Just conscripted--” 

“Stop talking.” 

“He’s no younger than Riggs or Andrew,” Billy could see Jack gesticulating out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t dare turn. “Stripped the captain down to his bones before I found him.” 

“You stop talking, too,” Vane directed past Billy, though he finally cracked a smile. “I was wondering why boarding got...progressively easier.” 

Jack stared at the mess near his feet and muttered, “That’s _one_ reason.” 

“Thought I told you to stop talking.” The humor eased from Vane’s face in stages. He stepped around Billy, right up to Jack. “You give up your share of this take, and I’ll put in a word with Teach.” 

“Teach?” Billy’s head snapped up so quickly he heard something in his neck pop. 

That smile from before returned, more angular and wicked now. He raised a thumb skyward. “You blind?” 

Billy hadn’t lifted his eyes until now, but there it flew, unfurled above his head exactly where Vane claimed; a man, a heart, a spear. 

“Welcome to the _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ , Bones.”

* * *

Billy stayed below deck while they looted the remainder of the ship. He had known some of those men and, vaguely, he felt a little guilt at joining the hands who had slain them. His shame was not substantial enough to beat out the larger part of him that brought him to the deck in order to watch them sink the accursed vessel. Teach, a black thumbprint against the smoke still lingering from the battle, gave the order from so far away on the _Queen Anne’s_ deck that Billy could still believe him to be someone mythical, but his voice was real and commanding. 

As the last of the bow sank below the waves, an arm dragged Billy a short ways down. When he regained his balance, it was to stare into the face of the bosun. 

“How does it feel?” Jack motioned to the place where the _Answer_ once floated. 

Billy noticed the tightness of Jack’s hand, his dark eyes similarly focused on the water as they had been on Billy, before, in the captain’s cabin. The bosun of the _Answer_ never cared what he thought, what _any_ crew member thought. Jack had wagered his share of the _Answer’s_ prize and, Billy reasoned--by the fact that he now stood here and _not_ at the end of Teach’s many barrels--that his bet on him had paid off. Whatever Billy was going to say and do in the coming weeks would tell if it had been worth it to the man. 

“Why not keep the ship?”

Jack released him with a small laugh. “An argument our captain and quartermaster are currently engaged in.” He pointed to the two in question, and now Billy could make out Vane who was motioning at a terribly still Teach. “I'm afraid you've met us in troubled times, Mister Manderly.” 

“Billy,” Billy automatically corrected, only to see Jack smooth his moustache and chuckle. “I didn't think I was walking into an easier life,” he said and didn't add, _Just the one I deserve_. 

“You studied the government, saw its leadership fracture out and crack into spiderwebs.” Jack examined the back of his hand. ”On a ship, the captain’s will may appear to supersede the rest but everyone from the quartermaster to a fledgling pirate can make things...difficult for him.” 

Billy felt his gaze drawn to the men in question. Or at least where they had been. The deck was conspicuously empty in a way that no part of the deck should be. Perhaps everyone was afraid to step foot where the argument had taken place, lest it somehow drew it back. 

“You’re going to be taken in by them. They’re going to try to shape you,” Jack’s sigh carried on the wind, and it sounded almost fond. 

“I thought that was your goal. Make me a boatswain, move up the ranks.” Billy said, accusing. “What, thought I’d forget?” 

“Was hoping you wouldn’t. Most of the people on this ship already know the rules because the ones who didn’t learn them quickly enough died learning them, understand?” Jack slapped his chest. “Not my job to show you the ropes, I just want you playing with a full deck of cards. That’s all.” 

“Jack!” Billy had to fight every instinct not to jump at Vane’s bark. It didn't stop the muscles in his neck from clenching entirely too tightly not to be noticed. 

“They’re going to try to shape you,” Jack repeated, walking backwards in the direction of the quartermaster’s voice, “that part’s inevitable. You don’t have to let them. You don't have to let _anyone_.”

* * *

If their discussion was meant as a portend, it was one that lacked immediate results. For the next month, Billy saw very little of Charles Vane or Edward Teach. There were several contributing factors in this, Billy’s newness among the crew being chief among them. 

The crew was...not friendly, but that was fine. Billy had expected to make friends as easily here as he had on the _Answer_ , which was to say not at all. In the Navy, he had been one of three conscripts--the other two much older than himself--and the ones who didn't hold him in disregard, looked upon him with pity. Here at least, he had a few things to his name, his stature for one. His mother had been wide-shouldered and his father, a tall fellow; together they had produced him. With a bit more muscle he’d cut an imposing figure. He was also lettered, and judging by the looks this skill garnered the first time it was put to use, was one of the few men aboard who were. 

The crew were not friendly but they were reasonable. And he had, on more than one occasion, made a few of them chuckle at something he'd said while they were all stuck doing what seemed like unending labor that tore at their muscles and what remained of their nails. By month's end, when he hadn’t botched his first raid (and as a point of pride, disabled the opposing ships cannons), a few men started to call him Billy. 

More had been there the day Jack brought him from below the deck of the _Answer_ , had heard the conversation between Charles and he. They called him Bones.

* * *

“Put your fucking light out, Bones,” Andrew growled from his hammock. Billy couldn't make out anything save his teeth, which glinted in a way eerily reminiscent of the man’s blade. That was enough cause for Billy to fold up his papers and blow out the candle on his chest, making a soft apologetic noise that earned him another growl. 

Jack had placed Billy in the hammock beside his own, but he was gone most hours Billy found himself in it. On the other side was Andrew, who took to wearing a hat that covered most of his face and was the angry sort of silent that made one think twice before wading into any conversation with him. Still Billy had learned some things about the man, whether through observation or his quiet conversations with Jack. 

Andrew was neither lettered, nor large, and Billy recalled Jack mentioning they were roughly the same age. Most of the other men avoided him and Billy couldn't tell if this was because they thought he might be dangerous or if Andrew created the distance himself...from all but Jack, of course. 

The two were close in a way that drew whispers. Billy understood this had less to do with the substance of any given rumor and and more to do with sheer boredom. Gossip was necessary on a ship; mundane things like relationships became salacious. Not that Billy had _witnessed_ anything of the sort. Whatever the truth, Billy perceived Andrew's only true friend to be Jack and Jack, for his part, seemed happy to keep this arrangement. 

So Billy was surprised when, out of the dark, Andrew's voice came again. “What's so important can't wait five more hours?” 

“Nothing, really,” Billy crossed his hands over his stomach. _A dead past._ “Pamphlets,” he admitted. 

“You know, half of us can't read that shit. And the half that can don't care.” 

“My mother said,” Billy continued because Andrew had, and it now felt safe enough to speak. “If no one cares about what you're writing, it's only because they've had their ears stepped on as much as their hearts. Write louder.” 

He heard Andrew shift, the boards creaking around him and, a moment later, the other man stood above Billy. His hat was somewhere behind him, and his face was still a snarl, but closer to the one he wore while trying to figure out the night’s meal. 

Andrew bent to pick up one of the pages below Billy’s own canvas. “Your mother’s dead?” 

Billy nodded, and tried very hard not to breathe. Andrew dropped the page back onto the pile. 

“Should’ve wrote louder.”

* * *

Billy can’t remember when, precisely, he realised that Andrew wasn’t _born_ Andrew. Wasn’t born male in any capacity, by Billy’s reckoning. He recalled it was sometime between their second raid (less successful than Billy’s first, something Jack had taken a great gash to his side for) and their first visit to Nassau.

It had seeped in like a slow awareness, helped along by the same gossip that followed Jack everywhere and, by extension, Billy who they sometimes took to calling his new ward when they felt in the mood to tease. One man--his name had been Harry or Henry--had been drunk and all but shouted and whistled the rumour as Andrew left the lower decks during a morning rotation. There was a flurry of speculation among the younger men about what happened to him after that, and Billy was sure he wasn’t the only man to have seen enough to put the pieces together. To witness Jack argue with Vane that evening while Billy slowed his walk to the sleeping area, just long enough to catch the quartermaster's stoic expression bunch into frustration until it smoothed again. Andrew and Jack were both missing that night; rotation switch authorised by the quartermaster, Andrew had explained as he cut away the molded bits of his cured meat the next day. Henry (Harry? Why couldn't Billy remember his blasted name?) wasn’t there, wasn’t anywhere on the ship, as far as Billy could tell, and Billy remembered the pause before Andrew bit into his meal, waiting for Billy to say something. Billy did not. 

 _Whatever_ Billy’s vague suspicions had been up til that moment, he was keeping them to himself. 

* * *

They docked in Nassau midway through Billy’s third month with the crew. When Billy had boarded the _Answer_ he thought he'd never grow used to the swell of the waves. Now with his feet back on solid ground, he felt the need to rush back to warped wood planks and the seeming stability of polished taffrail. He gasped as an elbow nudged him to one side. 

“Guinep,” Andrew growled from the corner of his mouth. He had a dozy-looking Jack hanging across his shoulders, and he deposited the larger man in a precarious lean against one of the posts at the end of the dock. 

“Guinep,” Billy repeated. “Is that...the doctor’s name?” 

“It's a fruit. Calms your stomach,” Andrew mumbled from under the brim of his hat. Information he likely wouldn't have offered if the two of them hadn’t spent the last few weeks switching shifts, taking care of Jack. 

“Thanks,” Billy turned to see the ship he’d joined, realising only then that it would be his first good look. 

“It’s beautiful…,” he breathed. 

“What?” Andrew stared at the ground with the same disgusted expression he directed at everything. 

“ _Anne_ ,” Billy motioned to the ship and got a quelling look for it. Andrew’s eyes shifted to the ship and his expression dropped into something bored and unimpressed. 

“S’just a ship.” 

Billy laughed softly, turning to take in the rest of the harbor instead. Nassau wasn’t busy, like London, it was more steady, bustling, and under the ever present tang of saltwater in his nose was a sweeter scent, like grass, and something close to the reek of farmlands. It looked pretty but he had heard rumours of the place. A relatively safe harbor for their ilk, especially after Teach murdered the governor and his family. Teach only spoke to the crew when he had to, and it was usually as intimidating as he likely meant it to be, but Billy didn't peg him for the governing sort. 

“He need a doctor?” Vane dropped another barrel beside the spot where the three of them were resting. Andrew lifted Jack up once again and glowered. 

“You see to your business, I’ll see to mine.” 

“My crew’s my business,” Vane took a step towards them, but his gaze was more assessing, his tone nowhere near approaching the threat Billy had grown used to hearing. Teach called his name from the rail of the ship and Vane turned without another word. 

“You will be taking him to see someone though?” Billy asked, just in case. 

“Gotta keep an eye on Teach with him out, don't I?” Andrew motioned to Jack. Billy hadn't realised this was a stipulation in their partnership, but theirs was an unconventional one. “The fuck’s wrong with your face?” 

Andrew smacked the back of his hand into Billy’s stomach hard enough to sting, though Billy stepped back a pace for show. “ _Ow_. I just don't want to spend another few weeks changing his bedpan because you took all shore leave dragging him around instead of asking for help.” 

“Shut up, Billy. Fuck, you talk more than he does sometimes.” Andrew chewed on the corner of a thumb, already worn to a nub. “Vane’ll send someone if we're still out here, come night.” 

“Vane... _likes_ Jack,” Billy mused. He’d experienced a similar moment after the raid on _La Giorna_ . Between Teach and Vane, the latter was someone Billy felt like he understood a little better, so he was thunderstruck when Vane wound his way through the crew after the evening’s shift and took his own turn taking care of the wounded Rackham. He didn’t stay long, and he mostly mocked him, but...they were friends. It wasn’t friendship as Billy was used to seeing it, but he now had a similar sort of repartee with half of the men on the _Queen Anne_ so he recognised the performance. 

Judging by the expression on Andrew’s face, he was alone in this recognition. 

“Vane don’t like owing people,” he said. “He ain’t Jack’s friend. And he ain’t yours.” 

Once upon a time, Billy may have bit back with something. He was good at arguing, and he liked it. But he liked Andrew a little more than arguing--was probably one of the few people who liked the man at all. He had a mean protective streak. 

Billy could hear scattering feet behind him, and cast a quick smile in his direction. “Appreciate the warning.” 

“Keep an eye on him.” Vane nodded at Andrew as he passed. Billy didn’t know if he meant  Jack or Teach but Andrew nodded back, regardless. “You're coming with me, Bones.” 

Jack always talked up and around to his points, usually until you did both what he asked and three other jobs besides. Vane wasn’t often in a position to give Billy direct orders, alone, and Billy was part shamed, part stunned to find he turned on his heel to follow almost without thought. Were it not for the hand at his elbow, holding him back, he would have. 

“Watch her,” Andrew pulled him down close enough to whisper. “The governor's daughter. She’s a cunt. Vane thinks its it's a laugh now but she's gonna be trouble.” 

Billy considered this, but Andrew was watching the ship again, so he did as he was ordered and followed Vane.

* * *

They didn’t talk along the way. Billy felt they may have already made their measure of one another. Vane didn’t seem to dislike him, and he put him on many of the harder jobs, which made him well-liked. The worst he could probably say was...Vane didn’t think he had the bearing of a pirate. 

In most ways, Billy agreed. 

Still, he called him Bones, and thrust a second pistol at him when Jack went down on _La Giorna_ , so Billy may have had too much time to think between sunsets. 

“Bones,” Vane said from two paces ahead. He waved a piece of paper by his head that Billy recognised as one of his pamphlets when he got close enough. “All this time I thought you were writing to some sweetheart, but this is how you choose to spend your free hours?” 

“Where’d you get that?” 

“It was on the ship,” the corner of the other man’s mouth lifted in obvious delight. He was enjoying himself. Billy wondered if part of Jack’s job in town was to keep Charles Vane entertained. “No one’s name on it, so it’s mine.” 

“I boarded the _Queen Anne_ to _escape_ autocracy,” Billy snatched the paper as Vane was offering it back over and over again in a tease. “Thank you.” 

“What's it say?” 

“I thought you read it.” 

“I want _you_ to read it,” Charles stopped in the middle of the busy street, sand kicking up around their ankles, and gave him a steady look that Billy couldn't place. It wasn't mad exactly...or exasperated. Assessing, maybe, which was equally scary. 

Billy coughed and read: 

 _Terror on the high seas! They come into your towns, ransack your homes, and upset your lives! You have heard these accusations shouted day after day...these are the deeds the government wishes you to ascribe to the so-called pirate menace. But it is they who levy taxes without healing your sick. They who speak about what you should or should not know while refusing to educate your young. It was not pirates who conscripted your son. It was not pirates who taxed your business to destitution._  

 _Terror on the high seas? No, terror in parliament! Terror wears the crown!_  

Vane crossed his arms and turned, making it a few steps before Billy followed. 

“Why shouldn't we blame them for the collective problem of piracy?” Billy inhaled more sand and choked it down. He’d let his eyes burn before he stopped speaking. “England blames pirates because it can't be bothered to fix itself.” 

“Maybe, maybe not,” Vane turned, placing a hand on a small slatted door. “But did you see the way that crowd stopped and listened?”

* * *

Eleanor Guthrie was slight and fair in color, but the expression on her face upon entering gave the impression she was already vexed. 

“Where's Teach?” 

“He didn’t feel welcome with your new business operation, if you can believe it,” Vane fell into a cushioned seat. He was very obviously teasing, but at the appearance of a wrinkle between her brow he leaned forward, voice dipping to something more serious. “I have Rackham keeping an eye on him while we discuss how business will operate now. Unless you _want_ the captain here?” 

“No, it’s only,” her eyes stayed on Billy and Billy felt his own brow furrow under the scrutiny. 

“Bones,” Vane slapped a hand on his lower back, shoving him forward. "He writes pamphlets.” 

Eleanor swung an unimpressed glance between the two. 

“William Manderly,” Billy wiped his hand off and held it out, forcing himself not to add a _ma’am_. She looked like one of those pursed-lipped London women, stripped of their fancy garb, but she couldn’t be older than he. “Billy.” 

Eleanor neatly ignored him and moved around to a chair far too big for her. She sat straighter, attempting to fill it anyway. “Of course you choose _now_ to dock. With my father gone, and Captain Hornigold so generously agreeing to take charge of the fort, things have been operating fairly smoothly.” 

Billy looked over to Vane, who leaned further into his settee and chuckled. 

“There's a new captain recruiting in port,” she pulled from her cup until it was empty and reached across the desk; cursed when she found the jug a finger’s length away from her too-short arms. 

“Go on,” Vane nudged the jug towards her with a foot and it wobbled a bit before settling closer to her hand. She narrowed her eyes at the vessel as though it had done her some great wrong.

“He’s recruiting people quickly, quicker than Teach did. He’s intimidating, has a way with words.” 

Vane scoffed, fingers tapping quickly against the armrest by Billy’s thigh. “Wouldn't stay a captain if he wasn't one of those.” 

“And he has Hal Gates.” 

Vane’s finger’s stopped moving. “That so?” 

Billy watched Eleanor smile and straighten herself. She liked this, he realised. Liked to win, probably liked to argue too. _Watch her_ , Andrew had said, _she'll be trouble later._  

 _She's trouble now_ , Billy thought, but found the corners of his mouth lifting a little. The crowd would stop for her, he bet. 

“I know you don't want to tell me what it is you and Rackham are planning, but whatever it is, your timeline? It's too slow.” Eleanor circled the desk and leaned into Vane’s space. Billy felt...uncomfortable. “Let me help you.” 

“Wait for me downstairs, Bones.” Vane waved in obvious dismissal and Billy barely made it to the door before the first sounds of clothes hitting the floor reached his ears. 

The noise from the men downstairs contrasted awkwardly from the noise inside the room, but Billy had been given some sort of instruction from Andrew not to leave Vane alone. So he waited just outside with the man who had shown them up--a Mister Scott--who looked equally uncomfortable. It couldn’t have been long, a half hour at least, before Jack stumbled up the stairs looking annoyed and still pained. He nodded at Mister Scott, who seemed to look at Jack as unfavorably as he looked upon Vane. Given the current circumstances, Billy couldn’t blame him.

Jack placed his hands on his hips and sighed at his feet. “Fuck,” he ran a hand down his face and looked up at Billy, expression resigned. “There goes six months of work.” 

Billy hesitated in the presence of another, but something vague wouldn’t hurt. “Work on what?” 

“Big plans, Billy,” Jack slapped a hand on Billy’s shoulder and winced. Billy wondered if he had stopped by the doctor. Likely not. “Suffice it to say, we’ll be doing things on _her_ terms now.” 

Billy tapped the hand on his shoulder in a clumsy pat. He didn’t know if he could say, _It’ll all turn out fine_. He didn’t really know what they were talking about. And even if he did, he often found that wasn’t the case. 

“Andrew’s downstairs,” Jack pushed away from Billy and towards the room. “Wish me luck.” 

Andrew was doing a decent job scaring off the surrounding men when Billy leaned against the bar near him. He was nursing a mug of something dark-colored and glowering from under his hat. 

“Thought I told you to keep an eye,” he said after a sip. 

“You didn’t tell me they had,” Billy searched for the word, “feelings for one another.” 

Andrew’s face twitched. “That what you call it?” 

Billy shrugged. He wanted to ask more. Were Jack and Vane trying to undermine Teach? Who was Hal Gates? Where could he get guinep, because his stomach was still turning about like an errant wheel. 

“I don't need you down here holding my hand.” Andrew slid his gaze to Billy, sharp-like, his voice taking on that petulant tone he sometimes got when Jack became too obviously worried. “It's me what's always keeping an eye on you anyway.” 

“I know,” Billy said, adding a nod of thanks as an afterthought. 

Andrew looked placated by that at least. “I'm saying you can _go_.” 

“Where?” 

“The market,” he suggested with a shrug. 

“Haven't been paid yet.” 

“The _brothel_ then,” Andrew was starting to sound irritated. “They'll take credit on Teach’s name.” 

“I'm not interested.” 

“The fuck’s _not interested_? You're a man ain’t you? S'wrong with you?” 

Billy found himself a little startled at the opening he’d been given. But even now, with the shaky promise of camaraderie between them, he was sure he'd be gutted for sniping back with a biting, _Moreso than you._ And Jack would come downstairs and sigh and _maybe_ pay to have the blood mopped up if he was in a charitable mood. He might have had a few nice words to say at his funeral if he hadn't died crossing Andrew. 

“A lot,” he finally answered, because he wanted to live. “I don’t think not wanting to have sex with strangers ranks among the list.” 

Andrew conceded the point with a snort into his drink. Billy finally took a seat beside him just as the sound of something tossed and a muffled shout came from upstairs. Billy watched Andrew make an aborted move to stand from his stool, hands twitching at the hilt of what Billy knew was a very serious weapon. 

“Well…,” Andrew forced out, clutching the hilt as though it were all that grounded him. Maybe it was. “ _I'll_ go.” 

“To the brothel?” Billy tamped down on a smile. 

“Anywhere,” Andrew stood, shoving his drink at Billy. “Tired of looking at you.” 

“I'll tell Jack to go to the doctor again?” 

“Let the sorry son of a bitch bleed.” Andrew called over his shoulder. Billy shook his head and laughed, drawing out the pamphlet from his chest pocket to fiddle with it for something to do. 

A half an hour later, he stared at the bottom of his second cup, unable to fathom what could take three people so long...beyond the obvious, lascivious (and he was suddenly glad for Andrew's departure, as he wasn't there to make fun of the turn of his thoughts). He was eavesdropping on a loud man’s tale about his crews raid, and another’s interjection of the clear lies surrounding it, when someone leaned against the bar next to him. He turned with an expectant look, thinking it could only be Jack. 

It was not Jack. 

Handsome wasn’t the first word Billy would have used to describe him, roughly Vane’s height, with red hair and a deep-set frown. He _was_ handsome but he was more obviously dangerous, which was more a gut reaction than a thought, brought on by the stare the man leveled past the barkeep, and the mean, black overcoat with a kind of cut to it that fooled the eye into thinking he was cleaner than he had any right to be. 

Human brains didn’t tend to process first impressions in a list, so all of this came to Billy in a jumble of thoughts and feelings as he clutched his drink tighter and tried not to stare. For his part, the man slid the pamphlet, which Billy had stupidly, _stupidly_ forgotten about until now, towards himself. 

Behind him, the men at the table had gone quiet, speaking in whispers punctuated by jabs to the stomach by errant elbows. Billy didn’t have to look to know their eyes were focused on them. Often, he had heard his crew mates joke about Teach being some sort of God, and Vane, a monster. Beside him stood a man who looked able to stare in the face of both and not blink. What did that make him? 

The man took his time, certainly enough of it to read the entire thing, before muttering, seemingly to himself. “Thought so.” He finally looked up and that stare, aimed at him, was as dead as the first life he'd taken, and a brilliant blue to taunt him for the metaphor. “You were the one shouting in the street an hour past?” 

“Billy Bones,” Billy chose his gifted name rather than his Christian one, not feeling as brave as he sounded. Teach and Vane and whoever the hell this was _were_ intimidating, but sleeping and eating beside Andrew had prepared him for this much at least. “I was. Who's asking?” 

The man regarded Billy for a long moment, eyes flicking briefly to the page in his hand, before he tilted his chin down, just enough to be polite. “Captain Flint,” Billy tried to place the name, and found he couldn't. Flint didn't seem offended, didn't seem to be paying much attention at all as he tucked the page into his jacket pocket. Billy watched him closely; he had spent enough time around Vane to know people like him were good at pretending. “You have a crew, Bones?” 

“ _Queen Anne_.” 

“Ah, Teach’s lot. Explains the earlier company,” he nodded slowly. “But you're on the wrong crew.” 

“Excuse me?” Billy hadn't known what turns to expect from this conversation, leaving him more confused than angry. Very slowly, his brain began piecing together every bit of new information through the lens of a captain, rather than...well...someone more like himself. 

“If you really want to change England,” Flint elaborated, pushing away the mug the bartender had left for him with a grimace. “You're on the wrong crew.” 

 _There's a new captain recruiting in port._ The conversation with Eleanor circled back to the forefront of his thoughts. _He’s intimidating, has a way with words._  

“Who says I want to change England?” 

Flint tapped his pocket, Billy’s own words, and bore his teeth in a smile more frightening than his frown. “You did.”

* * *

Teach was gone within the month. If Billy had the time to reflect upon the terms which Vane and the captain had gone their separate ways, and his own small part in it, he’d admit no great regret at the sight of Blackbeard’s departure. A pang of loss, maybe, as the _Queen Anne_ disappeared from view. He had loved that ship. 

But he hadn’t the time, thrown as he was into his new position as bosun of the sleek and intimidating _Ranger_ , and dealing with a different Anne entirely. 

Many of the men had known, or guessed close enough to the truth, about ‘Andrew’. So the day he stepped out from Jack’s room in a more loose-fitting shirt with a full pair of tits, there had been little to be surprised about. Averted eyes and hissed questions (often now in Billy’s direction rather than Jack’s), of a certainty, but the men who’d stayed with Vane were loyal men. There were men who’d left too, and they needed replacing. Those men, well, they hadn’t a clue. About Andrew or his reputation. 

 _Anne_ , Billy’s mind tripped over itself to correct, _her_ reputation. 

This was the second new recruit she’d mauled, and this one might actually bleed out on the deck, a distant part of Billy’s mind supplied while most of him watched Anne’s victim writhe on the wood like a beheaded snake. 

“Told you to stop talking about it.” Vane stepped over the body as the man clutched his stomach and moaned. He turned to address the crew in its entirety, smaller than before, but a good number still. “I don’t have the time for your _personal fucking grievances_. Anyone else have an issue, take it up with the bosun. Better yet,” he turned back when he had nearly reached his cabin and pointed to Anne. “Talk to her if you’ve got half the manhood you claimed to when you joined this crew.” 

“You heard him,” Billy raised his arms to clap. Most of the crew were already back to their own business, now that the show was over. “Back to work, unless you’ve got something else to say.” 

“Anne,” Jack groaned behind him, expression put upon as he ordered the few crew nearest him to take the bleeding man to the medic. “I don’t suppose you’ll be willing to allow bygones be, hm?” 

Anne stared at him. Billy couldn't’ see her expression from his position, but from experience and by Jack’s expression he could hazard a guess. 

“Nor will you help me look for a new member of the crew, I suspect,” Jack’s tone was flat. “No, I thought not.” 

“I’ll help, Jack,” Billy stepped forward to offer. 

“See? Teamwork.” Jack wagged a finger in his direction, eyes still on Anne. Then he leaned forward to whisper. “Though I _do_ appreciate you choosing to stab the men we haven’t paid yet.” 

“S’only ones dumb enough not to know better yet,” Anne lifted a shoulder. Jack laid a hand on it, a surprisingly intimate gesture, and pushed off towards the captain’s cabin.

Billy followed the trail of blood to the retreating men’s silhouette with a disappointed glare, arms crossed. At his shoulder, Anne chuckled. “Would you rather I still call you Andrew?” 

In the middle of the new man’s drunken accusations at Vane, at Jack, of trickery, treachery, and the lot, he had gotten in a few jabs at Anne’s name of all things. _Very pretty_ , as though this were one of the more sinful things a name could be. Billy couldn’t tell if she had been affected in any particular way. Somehow, in removing her mask as a man, she had become even more unreadable. Wearing a different cover, perhaps, or he had never known her at all (though he hoped the latter to be untrue). 

Her nose wrinkled now, and the expression was so familiar a bit of his worry dissipated. “S’not my name, idiot.” 

Billy uncrossed his arms to press her hat down. She was letting her hair grow out, he could feel it twist beneath the leather. “Anne, then.” 

Jack was propped against the wood of the captain’s cabin door, waiting for them if his expectant expression was anything to judge by. "All told we ended up with seventeen men."

Vane grunted from his spot by the ornate window. Jack pushed off from the frame to step fully inside. "Did you hear me, Charles? That's more than _half_ of the _Queen Anne_. Double what we were expecting." 

Anne shoved a sharp elbow into Billy’s ribs to squeeze through the door, planting herself firmly next to Jack. Billy stayed behind them, not _planning_ to take up the space of the door but doing so by virtue of his size. 

When Vane finally turned he looked satisfied. “Good.” 

“Hope you have an idea of how we’ll feed them all,” Jack groused. 

These three, Billy thought, staring between them, We could probably sail this ship ourselves and be just fine.

Vane looked past him to stare at Billy. Jack shifted slightly, leaning against the desk in the corner of the room to give Vane a clearer sight. “I reason you're the cause of our quick recruitment?” 

Billy shrugged his concession. It wasn't untrue. The men still went to Jack when they needed to speak to Charles, but he remembered their nervous temperament when Teach was still in the harbor. They drifted between ships, asking if Billy planned to stay with Vane; man after man, the same question and the same nervous follow up: _Reckon I will too, then._  

Vane snorted, picking up a dusty bottle from the seat of the window. “Wondering if you did the right thing?” 

Billy thought about lying, but between Anne who could read him uncomfortably well by now, and Jack who probably already knew the answer, there seemed to be little point. "A bit."  
  
Charles took a long drink from the bottle, hissing when he pulled it back. "Keep wondering. People like that about you."  
  
"Not you, though," Billy pried lightly.  
  
"I like that you weren't sure," Charles held out the bottle, an unclean peace offering passed between unclean hands. "You stayed anyway. Shows loyalty."  
  
Billy wasn't sure about that. _Jack_ was loyal. So was Anne, though not to Vane. Billy was...safe, was probably the best word. Between Vane and Teach, he could take a reasonable guess at where Vane stood. It helped that he often stood beside, sometimes in front of, two people he'd genuinely grown to like. But loyalty?  
  
His mind continually circled back to a certain captain's words from weeks before: _You're on the wrong crew._  
  
Billy shoved the thought aside, taking the bottle and staring down its dark neck. He took a tentative sip, still large enough to regret, and he found himself fighting a wince. Vane stepped forward to slap him between the shoulder blades. The burn down Billy's through brought tears to his eyes.  
  
Wrong crew or not, this was the one he had.

* * *

“Bones,” Jack entered the tent. “Why are your pamphlets are all over town?” 

Billy looked up from the game of Mariáš he was losing to Vane, _stupidly_ deciding on an honest answer. "I didn't know they were." 

"Is that so?" Jack said, flashing a quick grin and waving a scrap of paper. "I was going to give my compliments.” 

"Hand it here," Vane took a deep drink from his glass, laying his hand down to examine what Jack had brought back for inspection.

"Honestly, I haven’t written anything since that last...oh." 

Vane looked up from the page. Jack sat next to the captain with a sigh. 

"I don’t like emphatic ‘oh’s’, Bones," Jack said. "They’re the precipitous drop off before a calamitous _shit_." 

"I spoke to a man, in the bar, when I met Guthrie," Billy explained slowly. "Captain Flint." 

"Flint," Vane's jaw clenched under his skin. He took another drink. “How has the street responded?” 

“As it ever does,” Jack peeked under Vane’s cards, looking mildly impressed. “Reactionary, confused, and with a greater desire than normal to gut someone.” 

“And the Guthries?” 

From her corner of the tent, Anne huffed something undoubtedly rude, but low enough that Vane let her get away with it. 

"Nothing stated outright," Jack said. "Still, I imagine their impression is that anything causing unnecessary unrest hurts business." 

Billy was beginning to grasp the lay of things. Anything that irritated Eleanor Guthrie, outwardly delighted Jack and, by extension, Anne (though she seemed to have her own reasons for wishing ill upon the other woman, which Billy had only been able to boil down to a general dislike). Billy could tell Vane wanted to have a feeling of his own, but Eleanor being angry left the captain in a place between amusement and irritation. 

"Best take them down then," Vane raised a brow. "Bones. Get to it." 

"I didn’t put them up," Billy immediately protested. 

"They're still your words," Vane picked up the pamphlet once again. "What’d he say to you? _Flint_." 

"That I was on the wrong crew." Billy didn't remember much except that he was shorter and intimidating and handsome, but he _remembered_ that. Across from him, Vane spat with unwarranted force, and Billy wondered how someone could make even the act of expelling saliva so violent. "You must have agreed with him. I’m on an entirely different ship now." 

Vane stared at Billy long enough to make him uncomfortable. Then he stood and left the tent without a word. Jack pulled his fingers down the hair of his mustache. "I wonder what he’s planning, the captain of the _Walrus_." 

"Leave it be, Jack. S’none of our business," Anne cast a sharp glare in Billy's direction. "You too, Bones." 

"He could tell I wanted to change England," Billy said. He didn't mean it to sound wistful, he was just trying to explain their conversation, was all. But the yearning chord must have struck somewhere. Anne looked mildly disgusted. 

"Jesus, anyone stuck with you more than five minutes knows that, how you go on about it." 

"I don’t!" He countered weakly. 

"Remember what I told you," Jack spoke up, surprising Billy. "About people shaping you?" 

In all the commotion that came with Teach, Billy had only heard Flint talk to the gathered pirates of Nassau once, telling them how they could be better, do something worthwhile if they followed him to the _Walrus_. There was something fanatical about the way he spoke. He wove a good story, looking at the men with something shining in their eyes like _hope_ , so beaten down that it was easily mistaken for a sort of zealous belief. Billy felt it then, the potential to be molded into something he may not like. 

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew life on the _Ranger_ had changed him, had seen it alter others in ways they’d never come back from. He couldn’t say it was good, but there was a freedom to it. Natural change without fear of impressment. He wondered if Flint would allow something like that on his crew. 

"I haven't forgotten," Bill assured him. 

"Well," Jack stood with a cough. "I’ll make sure Chaz doesn’t do something…well. And the pamphlets, Bones--" 

“I’ll take them down.” Billy raised a capitulating hand. Jack exited the tent with a smile, hand grazing over Anne’s hat as he passed. Billy straightened the deck of cards and his side of the tent, as much as was warranted, before turning back to Anne. “Want to help?” 

She kept her eyes on her blade. “Fuck no.” 

True to her word, Anne didn’t help as Billy spent the majority of the afternoon tearing paper from the posts of establishments and assuring the owners that, no, the _Ranger_ in general and he, specifically, had not been responsible for them. She _did_ stay a few feet behind him, low sunlight reflecting off her drawn blades when anyone asked too many questions for her liking. 

“Scuse me, what do you think you’re do--oh,” Billy turned, paper in hand, to face a man stouter and shorter than he, and clearly confused. “Billy Bones, is it?” 

“Do I know you?” 

“Hal Gates,” he stuck out a hand so quickly that Anne’s blade found his wrist and rested gently upon it. He raised his gaze to her, mildly irritated, flipping his palm to show that it was empty. “Easy, miss.” 

“You’re Flint’s man,” Billy said when he noticed that Anne wasn’t budging. “What do you want?” 

Gates pulled his hand back and produced, from a pouch by his side, folded papers identical to those in Billy’s own hand. Anne’s blade dropped to her side as she stepped forward to examine them herself. 

 _Well,_ Billy felt a wash of resignation. _That’s that._  

“Word is that you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and a good compass for what this life tends to drag out of people.” Gates slapped the pages in his hand. “ _Your_ word. But Charles Vane...he’s got you all turned ‘bout.” 

“If you don't mind my saying so,” Billy said, remembering the blind devotion shown by the new recruits on the beach that day. “I don't think I'm far off in estimating Flint’s done the same to you.” 

Gates dropped his chin to chuckle, just a small thing. “Maybe,” he conceded, “but I've got a lot more experience.” 

Billy stayed silent, all too aware of Anne at his shoulder by the steady bob of her hat. 

Gates made a clucking noise, tongue drawn behind his teeth. “Thought I’d extend the offer while I had you here.” He held out the papers in his hand and Anne snatched them away before Billy could raise his hand. Gates laughed, backing away. “Just an idea. Nothing more to it.”   

Flint and Vane seemed to think there was a lot more to it, Billy thought, watching Gates push through a small throng of people piling into the tavern.

"What are you gonna do about that?" Anne muttered, chin tipped down.

"Thought it was none of our business." 

“He don’t know shit about you, or Charles Vane." She spun on a foot to face him. Her arm, and the papers held in her hand, shot out, pressing to the center of his chest. “But these was your ideas. _Your_ words. He _stole_ them from you. Proper pirate might look to answer that.” 

“Is that what you think I am?” 

“No. But I ‘spose he must.”

* * *

It took Billy longer than he'd ever admit to Anne later to find the man but he did, eventually, at a small house in the interior. He was on the porch and looked only a little surprised to see Billy. 

“Hal Gates found me.” In the low light, Billy could make out his _‘Ah_ ’ of realisation. 

“Well, I don't invite my crew out here and I don't recall inviting you.” 

Billy held out his pamphlets.

“If you were proud of it,” Flint leaned against his elbows, not bothered enough to allow himself discomfort. “You should have posted it yourself.” 

“Proud of it? It doesn’t matter how I felt about it, it’s _mine_.” 

“Equality before the law is not an idea you can _own_ , boy.” 

Billy opened his mouth to respond when a figure emerged from the door to Flint’s left, a shaft of light from the house falling between the two of them. The woman who stepped forward was exquisitely beautiful, and she held herself like a noblewoman. 

“Hello, ma'am,” Billy felt the insane, deep-rooted habit of pulling off a hat he no longer owned claw its way up. “Sorry for interrupting your evening.” 

“That's quite all right,” she said, quietly amused. 

“He was just leaving,” Flint said and, to both she and Billy’s surprise, walked inside. 

“Nonsense,” she seemed to have had enough time to collect herself and, though he did not know this woman, Billy felt a companion in the stubborn smile fixed on her face. “There’s enough food for three” 

He thought of Anne, covering for him back at camp, and of Jack’s warnings. More loudly, his mind recalled Flint’s judgement and easy dismissal. So perhaps it was childish obstinance, that made him say, "If you don’t mind." 

“Proper introductions then,” she said when the door shut. Flint turned from the fireplace with a tight smile, but did not stop her. “I am Miranda Barlow.” 

“Billy,” Billy took her proffered hand, unsure of what to do with it. He settled for squeezing it slightly before allowing it to drop back to her lap. “Billy Bones.” 

“Billy, what a lovely name,” she said, leading him to the table and placing a bowl of light-colored soup in front of him. The bowl itself was a beautiful bone white with whorls of faded green. “Is that a London accent?” 

“Born and raised,” he said, ignoring Flint’s prodding at the logs that sent sparks up the flue. 

“Myself as well, I'm afraid.” Miranda sat across from him, tucking in her dress to make herself comfortable. “How did you end up here?” 

Miranda directed the conversation; Billy could sense it happening, but he didn't feel uneasy as he often did when Jack guided his speech. It was when they were on the subject of writing-- nothing so deep as his own writing, which he had mentioned--the art of writing itself, that he asked about it. 

“How how do you do that?” 

“Pardon?” 

"I don't know how to describe it, the way you talk, it’s...well, it's very good.” 

She set down her cup and laughed. It was the loudest sound she had made that evening. Even Flint, who had bothered to join the table, smiled to hear it. “Thank you! I'm very practiced.” 

“I'm friends with people who practice talking,” Billy said. “Not like you.” 

Miranda examined her cup. “I can teach you, if you’d like.” 

Billy considered it, mildly surprised when Flint spoke instead. “Never turn down knowledge that could potentially benefit you. Particularly with the life you lead.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

“Please, call me Miranda,” she said, gathering his empty bowl. Through the open window, there sounded three bells from the shore. “Would you like some tea?” 

“No thank you,” Billy stood as the sound of the last bell faded. “I should get going.” 

“The roads can be tricky at night.” In one fluid motion, Flint pushed out of his chair and turned, wrapping his coat around himself. “I’ll lead you out of the interior.” 

“Probably just wants to get another stab at me before he turns me loose,” Billy said when Flint was back on the porch.

“Or give you a fair shot at him,” Miranda chuckled. “It was clever of you to come see what you'd really be signing up for. You can really taste the marrow of a man at his hearth.” 

“Vane would probably say a man in his home is a man with all his defenses down.” Billy looked around, taking in the china and the wood, so easy to catch fire. “Especially a home like this.” 

“Having broken bread with us, do you agree?” 

Billy let out an airy laugh through his nose. “I don’t think _defenseless_ is the word I’d use for this place.” 

“Goodnight, Billy,” she held the door open for him, smile still fixed and stubborn. 

“Goodnight, Miranda.”

Whatever Flint’s intent, he did lead Billy in silence, the smells and sounds smothering Billy’s senses before the dirt was illuminated under his feet by the port’s lights. Perhaps he _had_ been waiting for Billy’s rejoinder, as Miranda had said. As it stood, Billy couldn’t say he disagreed with Flint enough to argue. 

But he had to say _something_. 

“You told me I was on the wrong crew.” He decided on, catching Flint’s attention before he turned back towards the interior. “That if I ever want to change England, I’d need to leave Teach. Well...we’ve left.” 

“You have,” Flint conceded with a nod. “It’s not enough.” 

“I’m to assume, then, that the right crew is _your_ crew.” 

The corner of Flint’s lip lifted, revealing a sharp, if not entirely humourless, smile. 

Billy shook his head. “I think you and I might be very bad for one another.”

* * *

Eleanor Guthrie was in Vane’s tent next morning. On any other occasion this would have been a situation that warranted Billy’s immediate exit. Today, they were dressed, and beside her stood Jack, as well as a woman Billy had never met. 

“Bones,” Jack beckoned him over “Good, you’re finally awake.” 

“Late night,” he said shortly, joining them. Anne was nowhere to be seen. “What’s going on?” 

“This is a...contact of Missus Guthrie’s,” Jack motioned to the woman. “Max, Billy. Billy, Max.” 

“How do you do,” she said in an accent that was unmistakably French and a tone that signaled she didn’t actually care how Billy was. 

“He’s fine,” Jack waved them quiet, finger planted straight down on a piece of paper affixed to a crate. “ _This_ is what’s going on.” 

“A plantation,” Max said. “Impressed persons, those serving out a sentence, slaves.” 

“There are a few nobleman’s sons in the mix,” Jack said, looking positively _bright_. “It’s more birds than I can count with one take. Untold men for the crew, rallied by your words, and those who don’t join us will make a hefty ransom.” 

“I’m going to see to the ships.” Vane, who had remained quiet since Billy entered, uncrossed his arms and spoke. Without another glance at the others gathered, he left the tent. As he passed, Billy could make out crescent shapes where his stubbed fingernails bore down close to his elbows.

“Here,” Max called Billy’s attention back with the unfolding of a new piece of paper, produced from her bosom. Billy examined it, recognising only a few of the names, most especially the first. “Alfred Hamilton? The Lord Proprietor?” 

“It’s risky,” Eleanor straightened. “There’s no guarantee he or anyone else on that list will pay,  all we can promise is that every name there has a relative in this camp. For Lord Hamilton it is his son.” 

“Do we have a plan?” Billy said. “I mean more than politely ask?” 

“Charles does,” Jack took a step away from the table, clearly calling an end to the small meeting. “I think this is some _small_ gesture to win your loyalty.” He smacked Billy’s shoulder with one hand, lifting the tent’s canvas with the other. “I suggest you take it? Hm?” 

Billy stared at the names again as the other filed out. Impressed persons, Max had said. Brought to the Ranger by _his_ words. He wondered if Captain Flint couldn’t do a better job of convincing these men to join them. If Miranda Barlow couldn’t. 

He was still looking over the names when Anne entered the tent. She stared at the maps, shuffling them around until she was satisfied and stepped away. 

“Finished it with Flint last night, then?” She tilted her chin up, gaze searching. It wouldn’t help to lie, Billy thought, and shook his head. 

“You knew I wasn’t a proper pirate.” She made a hard sucking noise between her front teeth, but she didn’t berate him. After a moment she held out a hand. Billy handed her the names. “What do you think of all this?” 

Her eyes scanned the page, a crease forming between her brows. If the lettering on the page stood out to her in any significant way, she didn’t make mention of it. “Helping people, aren’t we? Isn’t that what you’ve been shouting about so much?” 

“I don’t shout,” Billy leaned over the crates, and knew he was pouting by the way she grinned--lofty and mocking. “Do you really think so?” 

Her lip curled. “Why the fuck do you care if you shout?” 

“Do you think we’d be _helping people_ , Anne?” 

Anne turned her face up, slowly, to meet his, her expression similar to the one she wore around the men when she had worn her first loose-fitted shirt; flat as a becalmed sea and just as deadly. “What did he say to you?” 

Billy crossed his arms, feeling the need for  _some_ defense. “Who?” 

“Flint,” she said. “You didn’t do him in, but he got up here.” She dropped the paper, reaching out to stab a finger to his temple, hard enough to send him slightly off-kilter. “Got in your head 'bout us.” 

“He didn’t,” Billy said, but it sounded weak. In his own mind, Billy was sure Flint’s words meant nothing...but he woke the next morning thinking of Miranda’s delicate elocution and, looking at the names covered in sand on the floor, he thought only of how the captain could elevate them. 

“Come with us, Billy.” she leaned in and hissed. It looked angry and dangerous, but to Billy, who rarely heard Anne use his first name, her tone was desperate. “The captain does what he promises, or he doesn’t. He doesn’t, we kill him.” 

“The scary part about that is just how much you sound like you mean it.” Billy’s smile was strained. Anne didn’t smile back. He thought of the bloody deck of the _Ranger_ , Jack sighing over man after man that had crossed his partner. He was curious if Jack would stand in her way over Vane... 

“Stop making it so complicated.” Anne took a step back. “I won’t let it be.” 

Billy bent so she couldn’t see his expression. Stop making it so complicated, she’d said. He looked at the first name on the list again. _Thomas Hamilton_. He’d be the metric, Billy thought, and if anything happened to that name, the name he knew, then Anne and he could...

 “You coming,” Anne held open the tent flap, lips pressed together tightly. “Or what?” 

 _We’ll uncomplicate things_. 

“Coming.”


End file.
